Debbie Bingham stood in front of the mirror, naked, knowing she would not be interrupted by anything, least of all by her husband, whom she knew would be gone for hours. He would be gone ministering to his "flock," to the regular people he always ministered to during the week—visiting the sick, the infirm, the ones whom he felt needed his support.

Debbie felt somewhat guilty, but not that much. She felt that it was a small sin at the most to view herself totally naked in the mirror. And in the past year she had begun doing it quite a bit. She was not an exhibitionist by any means, but she felt a compulsion every now and then to view her naked body, and she felt there was no harm in it. It wasn't as if she was committing some unpardonable sin. She was simply observing her body.

And her body was nice indeed.

Debbie was twenty-five, and had been married for four years to a preacher who was fifteen years her senior. If anyone had asked her "Do you love your husband?" She would have answered: "What kind of question is that? Of course I love him." But in reality, she had married him because it was the thing to do, and because he had asked her to marry him. It was that simple. She did like him; he was a nice enough guy and he was a nice provider; but did she love him passionately? No, she did not. But she had determined early in her marriage to make the best of it, so she had been a dutiful wife.

The fact that her husband did not satisfy her sexually was something that she had convinced herself came with the territory; it was an unavoidable part of being a minister's wife; it was something she had determined that in the overall scheme of things was secondary.

Her husband, being forty years old and an ordained minister for fifteen years was, to say the least, set in his ways. He was a dedicated preacher, spending his week ministering to the ill, the infirm, and the hospital-bound, and preparing and writing his sermons. As far as sex went, he looked upon it as a duty, as something to perform every now and then, but under no circumstances to view it with unadulterated pleasure. To him, sex was something to do every week or so, no more or less. In fact, he felt sex to be something not exactly unpleasant but overall a task that was expected of him.

In a few words, Terence Bingham could be described as short, chubby, conservative, inhibited, incurious, and horrified at the thought of experimentation of any kind—especially sexual experimentation. With Terence Bingham you got what you saw.

His wife Debbie, on the contrary, had a secret life—of which no one, especially her husband, was aware.

She got off on viewing herself naked. She masturbated quite a bit, and sometimes even fantasized about being fucked by a stranger—by someone whom she didn't even know. She suppressed and excused any guilt she felt of masturbating or fantasizing by rationalizing it as a normal thing and fantasy that every woman felt at some time or other.

As Debbie looked at her naked body in the mirror, she automatically checked herself out, and carried on a one-way conversation: Hmm, twenty-five years old, how am I doing? I'm attractive no doubt about that—some have even compared me to Catherine Zeta-Jones, Megan Fox, Felicia Crowton, April Scott and Charisma Carpenter—although I have no idea who those last three are. I must admit, in all honesty and with no exaggeration or pride, I do have an attractive face and body ... it's no sin to acknowledge that—it's the truth, and the truth is always right.

She moved her hands up underneath her breasts, and lifted them up a little. My breasts are full, firm, upthrusted, no sagging—I am simply stating the truth--I'm not exaggerating. My nipples are rubbery and erect—naturally—they need no stimulation—although it does feel good when I stroke them.

She began almost unconsciously stroking her breasts and nipples, pinching and squeezing the nubs.

"Ooh ah," she breathed out. This can't be a sin, she thought. I'm just stroking a little. Nothing wrong with that.

She began rubbing her titties and her nipples, breathing hard at the sensation that stabbed through her body. Ah, it feels so good, she thought. This cannot be a sin. It simply can't.

As she rubbed her breasts, she checked the rest of her body out.

Dark brown hair halfway between her shoulders and waist, deep blue eyes, heart-shaped face, curved shapely hips, long sleek legs, and a ginger-brown thatch of pubic hair covering her slit. She half-turned to view her butt. It was big and rounded, but not fat; it was a perfect ass, firm and upthrusted.

Debbie was as far from being vain as you could get, but she had to admit honestly to herself that she had a nice face and body. In fact, she had been told on more than one occasion, that if she were not married to a preacher, she could make it as a movie star or model. Debbie had shrugged it off, for she was indeed a modest person; but she was not immune to statements that were truthfully made. And she could admit to herself without any false modesty that she was indeed attractive. She accepted it as a simple fact. There was no sin involved in acknowledging the truth.

Her hand moved down of its own accord, down her tummy, past her navel to the top of the thatch of ginger-brown hair. She hesitated for a second, and then shrugged and wagged her head. It can't be a sin to do this, she thought. It's not hurting anyone or anything.

She ran her hand on down to between her legs and pressed. Ooh, that feels good, she thought to herself.

She began sliding her hand up and down, stroking her cunny. Ah, that's so good—ooh yes, it feels so good. She began rubbing vigorously, using four fingers to stroke up and down. She gasped aloud as she watched herself in the mirror.

Oh yes—so good, she panted. Oh ah, I wish something would—ooh ah, I wish something would fill me up. I want it. I want something deep in me—filling me up. I want it deep in me—all the way to my core ... Oh ah, I want something deep in me—all the way...

She stroked and rubbed her clit till a mini-climax jabbed through her pussy up through her tummy to her breasts. But even at the instant of her mini-orgasm, she felt regret at the thought that it wasn't the real thing, that the real thing was something she would probably never experience, given her position. After all, she was a preacher's wife, someone who, for a number of reasons, was not expected to feel passion, much less actually physically experience it.

Debbie sighed with frustration.

She thought about her husband. He's really a good man, she thought, but he just doesn't ... doesn't understand ... how can he—given his situation—his position—his make-up. There's no way he can understand what I want—what I need ... There's just no way ... And he doesn't—he won't —he would be horrified if I suggested trying something ... and he's--so small too ... he's really very short and thin between his legs—and he doesn't last very long ... at the most a minute ... he's just so small—and doesn't last long...

Although they had been married for four years, and wanted children, so far they had not been blessed. Debbie had at first placed the blame on herself, but finally, after three years of marriage, and knowing she was fertile, she had finally convinced her husband to be checked out. It had been discovered that he had a condition that had resulted in his having a low sperm count. It had at first somewhat injured his self-esteem, but he had finally accepted it and attributed it to the "Lord's Will." Debbie had mixed feelings about it, and considered it had nothing to do with the lord's will, but was actually a deficiency in her husband. In many ways, Debbie was much more realistic than her husband...

At the same time as the preacher's wife was observing herself in the mirror and stroking between her legs, two men sat in a bar across town. They had just gotten off from work—they were employed as construction workers for the city—and they were engaged in their normal routine after work, which usually consisted of going to this certain bar and quenching their thirst. They were big husky guys, in their mid-twenties, and dressed in their usual work clothes; that is, jeans and khaki shirts.

Looking at them, an objective observer would notice nothing peculiar about them. But if one had the ability to look inside, he or she would probably be shocked. For it would be seen that they were rapists. They had committed a number of rapes; they were experienced; they had been working as a team for quite awhile. And they had never been caught. There were two reasons why they had not been caught. For one thing, they were professional, in the sense that they planned their rapes meticulously, sometimes going months between rapes; and they scoped their victim; that is, they picked her out, watched and observed her as much as possible—as far as her habits went, and discovered where she lived, and what her situation was. They did nothing on the spur of the moment; they planned as much as possible. The second reason they had not been caught had to do with the victim herself—her psychological make-up, so to speak. They had learned through experience that most—perhaps seventy-five percent or more of rape victims never reported the rape (for a variety of reasons). And the ones who did report the rape were usually vague about the description of the rapists or uncertain in some ways, or were late in reporting it. The two rapists had learned through experience that it was actually quite easy to rape and get away with it and be gone from the vicinity before the victim even had made a call.

.... There is more of this story ...

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